The Pawn
by KJB216
Summary: The Study In Pink from the perspective of Moriarty, Going in depth about his daily life and relations with other Characters


The old man sits opposite Moriarty, staring down blankly at the battered desk between them in a desperate attempt to avoid the curious gaze of the man in front. Every detail on his face, lost by the harsh bright light from the naked bulb aimed directly at his ancient, wrinkled face. His lips twitching slightly in anticipation of the conversation yet to come, while images of deceit and death slide through his mind, showing themselves breifly in the pained look of his watery grey eyes.

Moriarty sits back into the embracing darkness of the shadows, out of view of the elderly cab driver. The room in which they sit is crammed full of boxes and disused equipment, an old office, long since abandoned and fallen into disrepair. the single window, through which floods the dull silvery glow of the moon, was smashed long ago and a chilling breeze drifts through the area. Cobwebs cover the walls and ceiling of the office, fluttering feebly in the constant flow of air, but their as lifeless as the dust that coats their silky threads.

Moriarty leans back into the hard wood chair, his feet casually resting on the table in front of him. This man is boring him, talking to him about his situation. He's going to die, of course he is, he's an aged taxi driver who's suffering from an aneurysm. He's detached from his family, but is still worried about what he'll leave them when he dies. A horrible weakness to display, of all things in the world that will get you killed, love is prehaps the deadliest. It sparks an idea though, a simple thought forms in Moriartys head. Here's a foolish man willing to do anything for a better future for his children, a simple cab driver? Or the perfect disguise?

"You say you need money for your children."

"W-well yes, that's why... That's why I'm here. I need y-your help." The cabbie stutters out, fiddling nervously with his thick glasses.

"They say a dying man will always be more desperate. Tell me, would you be willing to partake in a little game of mine I wonder?" A devilish grin widens on Moriartys face.

"A-a game? W-what sort of g-game?" The old mans face seems to tighten under the pressure of the conversation, sweat beginning to form along his brow.

"It's simple really, I just require you to talk to someone who's grown a little bit... Reckless." Moriartys face grows serious, the simple idea appealing to him as he expands upon it, becoming more intricate with each new line of thought. Sweat dripping slowly from the cabbies soft white hair, Moriartys words slowly passing through his mind.

"And what do you want me to talk about?" He replies struggling to keep a calm voice, his words more calculated, his eyes now fixed upon the dark face of the devious man opposite.

"Anything really, anything so long as at the end of your little conversation. They kill themselves. No... No theres not enough passion... Lets make it more interesting shall we? I want you to risk your life as well, put your life on the line in a battle of the minds, and I'll reward you greatly.

"Just remember though, that the cards, so to speak, will be in your hands. You'll just need to to think ahead whilst they're stuck in the present. And you'll be paid handsomely." Moriartys eyes light up at the thought of this desperate struggle for money.

"Killing? But what if I get caught? What if the police catch on?" Worry spreads again across the wrinkled old face.

"Ha! The police in London are falling to pieces. Pick the correct moment and you can get away with anything."

Moriarty's mind drifts back to previous crimes he'd commited. Theft, blackmail, dear Carl Powers... The boy had been a pain , bullied him on a regular basis. he deserved what he got and he, Moriarty, had dealt it to him. And see where he was now, Carl was buried, 6 foot under. And he.. he was a genius, a criminal mastermind, a jack-of-all-trades. He owned this world, with a click of his fingers he could bring down goverments, a signature was all it took to dispatch of anyone that so much as looked at him wrong.

A gentle cough brought him back around, he looked up to see the nervous stare of a man with nothing left. Nothing left, but to play.


End file.
